Drive by.
I had a hard day trying to find a place to live, and seeing as Mike is due back tomorrow, it was essential that I find a place today. No dice, and the moral of the story is I should trust my instincts.
I have next to nothing for a memory. What I do remember, however, is every twist and turn of every piece of land I have navigated across. Put me in the backseat, my stats go down. However, wherever my beemer goes, you know that I'm driving. The bay area is like a ghost for me. I've been here before, I've almost always been driven, and I recognize every little pocket neighborhood I've been to so far. The problem is putting them all in relation now that I am finally, fully, behind the wheel. So, I hate to admit, I have been using mapquest to help me find directions to houses with rooms to rent. Don't do it.
The listing said to drive by and then call. Just from the address of a street I didn't even recognize, it seemed like it would be a good ways away. Mapquest says: .7 miles, in a line that would let me walk through the farmers' market. I'm game, the yankees have just won the division and I need a distraction. Market is winding up, no one will discount a $6 tomato for me, and I keep walking. And walking. And walking. It's a cool enough day, but now, with my backpack, suit jacket and too-thick-for-you-socks I am actually thinking that $3.10 a gallon is not that much to pay. I walk by a high school football game where an ambulance is sounding off and dready nat heads heat up beans and cheese from gallon containers.
After some confusion I find the place. I shudder and keep walking. On the way back I see some kids and their adult playing baseball. My back hurts, my feet hurt, the hot flashes I've had all day continue. I ask if I can play.
She says yes and I am the new pitcher to a 9 year old and an 11 year old. Only guessing. I don't get shelled. I bat and get to unleash one good righty line drive, pulled, over the shortstop, straight to the monster. Even the 11 year old is trying to antagonize me about the Yankees winning. He wants to be Mariano Rivera next time I bat. Even I can't bear the thought of a 28 year old true lefty unloading a shot that would lose the ball forever. Okay, I bore it for a second then dismissed it, walking away with a "thanks for letting me play."
Baseball was my familiar territory for the day. Mapquest changed its story when I got home:2.75 miles. Each way. Son of a bitch.
I have next to nothing for a memory. What I do remember, however, is every twist and turn of every piece of land I have navigated across. Put me in the backseat, my stats go down. However, wherever my beemer goes, you know that I'm driving. The bay area is like a ghost for me. I've been here before, I've almost always been driven, and I recognize every little pocket neighborhood I've been to so far. The problem is putting them all in relation now that I am finally, fully, behind the wheel. So, I hate to admit, I have been using mapquest to help me find directions to houses with rooms to rent. Don't do it.
The listing said to drive by and then call. Just from the address of a street I didn't even recognize, it seemed like it would be a good ways away. Mapquest says: .7 miles, in a line that would let me walk through the farmers' market. I'm game, the yankees have just won the division and I need a distraction. Market is winding up, no one will discount a $6 tomato for me, and I keep walking. And walking. And walking. It's a cool enough day, but now, with my backpack, suit jacket and too-thick-for-you-socks I am actually thinking that $3.10 a gallon is not that much to pay. I walk by a high school football game where an ambulance is sounding off and dready nat heads heat up beans and cheese from gallon containers.
After some confusion I find the place. I shudder and keep walking. On the way back I see some kids and their adult playing baseball. My back hurts, my feet hurt, the hot flashes I've had all day continue. I ask if I can play.
She says yes and I am the new pitcher to a 9 year old and an 11 year old. Only guessing. I don't get shelled. I bat and get to unleash one good righty line drive, pulled, over the shortstop, straight to the monster. Even the 11 year old is trying to antagonize me about the Yankees winning. He wants to be Mariano Rivera next time I bat. Even I can't bear the thought of a 28 year old true lefty unloading a shot that would lose the ball forever. Okay, I bore it for a second then dismissed it, walking away with a "thanks for letting me play."
Baseball was my familiar territory for the day. Mapquest changed its story when I got home:2.75 miles. Each way. Son of a bitch.
posted by Jassmond at 3:15 AM
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